


Fog's Daughter

by Tethys_resort



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Darkening of Valinor, Domestic Violence, Doom, F/M, Family, First Kinslaying (Tolkien), Flight of the Noldor, Hobbies, Insanity, Love, Music, Oath of Fëanor, Poor Life Choices, Redemption, Silmarils, Spoilers for The Silmarillion, Survival, Talents, The Two Trees of Valinor, The Valar, Years of the Trees, the grinding ice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tethys_resort/pseuds/Tethys_resort
Summary: A story about choices and agency.  And hope.(Please heed the tags!)
Relationships: Maglor | Makalaurë/Maglor's Wife
Comments: 8
Kudos: 31





	1. Light of the Trees

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry folks, this is not light or fluffy (wait a few weeks if you want, the next is cute). 
> 
> Trigger warnings: violence including domestic violence (definitely NOT condoned, just present), violent death and hopeless situations, dysfunctional families, mental health problems, and bad decisions.
> 
> As always, please contact me if you have questions or would like clarification.

Hisweyelde made one last check of her equipment spread across the blanket on the kitchen floor of the deserted mansion before loading it into her pack. 

Good shoes, a coat, a thick wool blanket, a rain cloak. She had heard it was cold as you went north away (much farther than Formenos) from the Light of the Trees. Not that it mattered, the Trees were gone beyond recall and the whole world was dark. 

Good thick socks. Thick canvas trousers, two linen tunics and the leather hunting jerkin that had been a gift from the Twins on her last begetting day.

Hunting equipment. The bow her brother in law made and her husband had taught her to shoot. The knives were from the armory in Formenos, she had walked through the remains of the slaughter to get her bow and select a sword that suited her in weight, armor and knives before they left. She won’t need the armor or the sword, she thinks. 

Food. She had a couple of meals worth and could use more. She didn’t know what lived out there in the dark beyond the Light of the Trees. Little enough in the dim twilight of Formenos. She’ll have to figure out how to get more travel rations, possibly she can slip in and steal some from her parent’s estate. The park side wall still has the ivy she and her little sister used to climb as elflings. (Certainly given her reception in the marketplace she won’t be able to purchase any in Tirion or any other town.)

The tent and its tiny little lamp. The little two person one she and her husband had taken on many trips off exploring around Formenos, just in case of rain. Staring at the rolled bundle she tried not to remember his hands running down her hips as they touched each other in the dim Light that reached that far. It would be cold and she would need the shelter. 

She was staring at the small ball of fishing string and the little leather fold of hooks when her little sister slipped back into doorway. “I thought I sent you home.” Her lip twisted, “Your husband does not approve of me and you will make him angry if you spend too much time with a ‘Kinslayer’.”

Kinslayer. The new word being used to describe the elves who had dared to defy the Valar and fought on the docks. 

“I thought you’d want to know. Lord Arafinwe has returned from the north.” Lisyelde slipped into the room, wove around the heaps of supplies and with quiet grace set a shopping basket down on the floor and perched on the edge of a kitchen chair drawn up against the wall. She took a moment to arrange her skirts before continuing. “He has begged the Valar and King Olwe for forgiveness.”

So the army heading to Middle Earth had gotten a little smaller. 

“So I should go and beg for forgiveness too? Ask the Valar to break my marriage bond and save me from the Sons of Feanor?”

Her sister shoved the basket over with her foot. “I did not think so. So I emptied the cupboards of anything that will travel well.” The edges of her mouth turned up in something less than a smile. “Cook was surprised, but I control the household accounts. My husband will have no claim over what is or is not purchased.”

Hisweyelde reflects that she has perhaps been a poor influence on her little sister. “Thank you, Lis.”

Her sister looked across the piles of gear, then said, “Take the string and hooks. They are light and don’t take much room.”

The packing continued in silence with Hisweyelde making the rest of her selections and stacking the rest to one side. Lisyelde watched silently, hands folded in lap. As she finished, her sister said, “Will anyone come back here? To this house?”

Hisweyelde glanced about. “They said they would recapture the Silmarils and build a new empire away from the Valar. My husband told me to wait a little and then I could come.” 

“Hmm…”

She sighed. “I think I would be waiting a long time.” If she shut her eyes she could hear the last holiday spent in Tirion, before the banishment and before the darkening. Everyone had been crammed into their own suites within the mansion, it was spacious but not quite spacious enough for THAT many elves. Lord Feanaro had snapped at family and house servants alike for being underfoot and gone off to hide in his suite with The Box containing the Silmarils. Lady Nerdanel had scowled at his retreating back and gone into her studio to start shaping a new project. Nelyafinwe had watched the chaos unfold, sighed, and begun marshalling brothers, in-laws and servants into a semblance of order. 

“I think the house and the garden both may be long gone before anyone returns for any reason.” She swung the pack up, testing the weight and balance. She turned to smile at Lisyelde. “And I intend to go hunt my mate, not sit here like a doll in a box, waiting for my master to return.”

She hugged her little sister goodbye and left her standing in the sheltered porch as she set off up a side street towards the north. Lisyelde had offered to walk with her to the edge of Tirion, but Hisweyelde had turned her down: the violence of the last months had made every elf in Valinor more dangerous and in danger as their world had splintered into factions and clans. 

Truthfully, she hoped that the wavering light of torches, bonfires and lamps would be enough to hide in. Too many elves knew her face. 

No elf left in Valinor would be happy to see the wife of Makalaure Feanorian.

***

She had helped kill the sailors. 

Hisweyelde would freely admit that fact. Lord Feanaro had announced that it was his will that the boats be used to cross the ocean. The Falmari had cowardly announced that they would do nothing to which the Valar had not given explicit permission and Lord Feanaro had returned to their camp outside of Aqualonde unsatisfied and fuming.

The plan had been to simply use their greater arms to force the Falmari away from their ships, not massacre innocents armed with fishing knives, the type of light bow used to hunt ducks, and pieces of boat equipment. As she had learned and practiced in Formenos, she had protected her bond mate’s back as he cut his way through.

She had nightmares about the blood running down the wharves and into the water. She had gut stabbed a sailor armed with an oar and he had begun to cry as he lay bleeding out at her feet. Lord Feanaro had yelled, “No quarter. Finish them.”

So she had, slitting his throat as he lay there helpless.

The Maiar had screamed in pain and loss as they looked at the bodies floating in the water. The water had been turbulent with swimming bodies crying out and trying to drag dead and dying sailors away from the fighting.

A near miss with a boat gaff had nearly cost Makalaure an eye, leaving blood trailing down one cheek. He had yelled, “Keep your guard up Hiswe!” And she had braced herself to try.

Later Findekano had brought reinforcements to the docks and in the face of overwhelming odds the sailors had finally fled. He ended up fighting in a block with Nelyafinwe and Lady Irisse. As the fighting died down he had looked at the bodies lying across the boats and bobbing in the water and said, “Nelyo, why did they even attack you?”

***

All her life, Hisweyelde had been taught to obey. First to obey the Valar, whose power had created Arda. Next to obey those Elders who declared how Elvish life should be. Next to obey her parents and then those of higher rank. When the Valar decreed that more marriages of the Noldor aristocracy were needed on the behalf of peace, her parents had informed her that she would be married. She could not fight the Valar and would not fight her parents, so she quietly agreed and hoped that a nice husband would be chosen for her. 

It was of great surprise when King Finwe announced that these marriages were to happen by consent, not decree. So garden parties, banquets, music evenings and balls were arranged over course of the next years. Her parents informed her that she should meet as many young males as possible, and let them know if she found one that suited her. 

Hisweyelde didn’t have high hopes for the whole process. Lisyelde, with her dark brown-gold hair and light brown eyes was much more noteworthy and unbonded males tended to flock around her at every event. 

Her bubbly and cheerful demeanor was well suited to the attention and Hisweyelde did not envy her.

On the other hand, Hisweyelde had dark brown hair and eyes. And freckles that disguised the fine boned features she shared with her sister. A brown child, her mother said. She was a wooden instrument carver by both hobby and talent and would have spent all of her time making musical instruments, Singing the wood under her knife and fingers into life, if she were allowed. As a Noldor noble she was expected to marry for position and spend her life caring for a Household. Noble talents were things like poetry and writing or delicate metalwork like jewelry. 

Lord Feanaro’s works in language and gemstones were, except for scale, entirely typical. (She admits that the swords and armor later were not typical at all, not at first.) Lady Nerdanel, as daughter of Lord Mahtan, could get away with much. 

With females like Lady Artanis and Lady Irrise present at the gatherings, most males ignored her. She was okay with that.

It didn’t take long for Lisyelde to be courted by and then handfasted to a middle rank Noldor lord of Lord Arafinwe’s set that only lived a few houses from their parents. They traded silver rings, then after a full turn of the seasons the gold and moved in together. Lisyelde was ecstatic, and Hisweyelde was quietly relieved it wasn’t her. 

She did have to agree that he was perfect for Lisyelde: He adored her, and listened to her opinions most of the time. As a bonus, he traded in gemstones and she did fine filigree jewelry Sung so that the gems shown with tiny inner fire that warmed the soul and brought heart-peace.

Hisweyelde hoped that with one daughter married her parents would give up and let her go back to carving. She was not so lucky and they redoubled their efforts. She took to sitting at back tables and quiet nooks with a small block of wood and a tiny knife. (She was limited by size because everything had to fit into the pockets of her skirts.) As long as her parents didn’t notice, she could carve in peace. 

She was sitting in the middle of a stand of beech trees, Singing the final details into a tiny hand whistle when she met Makalaure. He leaned over to stare at the whistle, idly tucking a loose braid behind an ear. 

“What key did you carve it into?”

She stared blankly and he said, “May I?” and at her nod plucked the whistle out of her hands and played a jig. True to its Singing, the whistle’s tone was clear, bright and happy enough to charm the birds to sing along. Although that might have been the Song of the minstrel playing the instrument. 

Finishing the song he had laughed at her expression and said, “Did you do all that with that little knife? Can I sit down with you?”

Makalaure started looking for her at the parties, finishing his music set and then sitting down with her in the corner to watch her carve. He watched quietly while she worked but asked a steady stream of questions when her fingers weren’t in motion. Soon his brothers knew to look for him in whatever corner she had ducked into. Her parents were overwhelmed when Lady Nerdanel sent a marriage proposal over several years later. 

(Hisweyelde herself hadn’t said anything. She had figured the Prince would lose interest fast enough.)

Lord Feanaro had stared at her and said, “A powerful Singer and wood carver? How unique.” All while she wore the silver ring, all of Makalaure’s brothers had shown up on random occasions (varying in number from one to six brothers, but usually at least three) to pester her with random questions (how should she know what Curfinwe’s love interest wanted for her begetting day?) and deliver tiny gifts from their brother.

At the wedding reception Nelyafinwe, the eldest brother, had thumped Makalaure on the shoulder and whispered, “Thank goodness, with you married maybe the pressure will be off me.” Given her own experiences, Hisweyelde doubted it.

***

Just outside of Tirion the roads were deserted. The lingering stench of evil from the spider was strong here from its passage north towards Ezellohar and what was now the graveyard of the Two Trees. She wondered if anyone had picked up the remains of the reunification party. Or if they were yet there next to the dead trees, rotting slowly. 

She turned along the high road that would take her along the coast north. There were no elves along this road, the scattered houses were deserted. Hisweyelde could only assume that they had sought the comfort of others and the lamps of the city. Or, they had trod this path north with Lord Feanaro, Lord Nolofinwe and Lord Arafinwe. She checked through the abandoned houses, picked up more food and a coil of light rope. 

As people had panicked in the sudden dark, the Valar had sent out messages of comfort to Tirion, Aqualonde and far off Valmar. And a demand to Lord Feanaro to give up the Silmarils. 

Hisweyelde couldn’t help but wonder why Eru hadn’t noticed the spider crawling through their creation, why the Valar had failed to stop the creeping evil or rechained Melkor when King Finwe had told them he coveted the Silmarils. 

A bit north of here was where she had left Lord Feanaro and Lord Nolofinwes’ groups. 

It had taken a full day for the Noldor army to sluice down the boats enough that the decks weren’t sticky with blood. They hadn’t bothered with the rest of the boats and the white of the hulls had been marred with red-brown smears as they left the harbor. Lord Findekano had ordered a halt as soon as they were a little north to reorganize and wash the boats properly. Lord Feanaro had argued and chafed at the delay. It had taken weeks to learn to move the boats efficiently: the Noldor were not sailors and more than once boats had collided or beached as they learned to handle the oars and sails. 

She giggled at the memory of Carnistir and the Ambarussa all yelling different instructions to one hapless rowing crew. The boat had rowed in slow circles clockwise and counterclockwise until it was in danger of hitting the rocky shore. Finally Nelyafinwe had climbed aboard and ejected the Ambarussa to Lady Artanis’ boat, much to the disgust of all involved. Lady Artanis had given the Twins a cold stare and finally threated to, “Tie them to the front of the boat as ornaments if they didn’t leave her alone.”

Lord Arafinwe had joined them a little later. Then, at the edge of occupied lands, Makalaure had confronted her and said, “Hiswe, go home to Tirion and your parents. I will send word later when we’ve won.”

She had stared, disbelieving. She tried to reach out to his mind, but as always these days, he blocked her out. Makalaure has always been a loyal son and after Melkor’s first visit, Lord Feanaro had pronounced that such bonds were chains created by the Valar. Out loud she said, “I do not wish to go.”

His eyes had narrowed then. “You are not a good fighter and will be useless in battle in Middle Earth. All you’ll do is get me killed.” It was cruel, untrue and unfair, and they both knew it.

But the habit of obedience held. He continued, “Besides, this won’t take long. We’ll cross, triumph over Melkor and take back the Silmarils.” She had reached one last time down their blocked bond, feeling his self-disgust and regret, but hadn’t managed to make contact.

So she had returned to Tirion.

Tirion was emptied and gutted. The remaining elves clustered in little groups about the scant light available, wearing cloaks and bundling themselves up for comfort more than warmth. The darkness made it feel much colder than it actually was. 

She went first to the mansion Lord Feanaro maintained when he had business in Tirion. It was deserted, with broken windows and scrawled with angry graffiti. Trying to purchase dinner in the marketplace had led to shopkeepers announcing themselves unavailable for sales. And in one case threatening “to gut her like the murderous bitch she is”. Frightened, she decided to forego shopping and returned to the deserted mansion empty handed. 

She made a meal of garden vegetables starting to straggle without the Light of the Trees and the store of preserves in the cellar before resting a little.

Next she tried to go home to her parents. The Steward came out and told her, “There is no daughter of this household by that name.” Then, ducked his head and whispered, “I am so sorry Lady Hisweyelde…” Shocked and hurt, she had bowed politely and left before he could see her tears.

Lisyelde had gasped, hugged her and said, “Hiswe, you came back!” They had run to their favorite bench in the park down the street and sat in the darkness together. There, she had learned more of what had happened as she had traveled with the Noldor army.

News had spread of Melkor’s actions and Lord Feanaro’s unwillingness to part with Silmarils. Most elves, the remaining Noldor, all of the Vanyar and surviving Falmari thought he was selfish and hateful. 

Everyone had learned of the carnage at Aqualonde.

The Valar had announced that Feanor and Nolofinwe and their followers together were Kinslayers for their actions and were calling upon them to repent. 

More than one Noldor husband or wife, left behind as the Noldor army had attacked Aqualonde, had petitioned the Valar to break their marriage bond.

Lisyelde’s husband threatened to petition for a breaking of their bonding if she had anything to do with her sister in public. “How benevolent,” Hisweyelde sneered to herself. He had informed Lis that she could help her sister so long as he or no one else ever heard of the matter.

In the end, they decided that it was best if Hisweyelde hid in Lord Feanaro’s mansion. 

The problem with hiding out and quietly gardening in the withering kitchen garden is that it gives one a lot of time to think and for rage to grow. 

Up until now she had obeyed her parents, the Valar and even her husband-the-prince. It had left her hiding alone in an empty house in a dying city. 

***

Unsurprisingly, the little rocky point on the coast where she had parted company with Makalaure and the Noldor army was empty. The beaten trail led north and was surrounded by the tiny litter from the lives of the thousands of elves in the march. Hisweyelde took to checking each camp for usable gear: once a lost hair tie, another time an abandoned fishing spear. She tucked the hair tie into her pack and climbed among the rocks on the shore to use the fishing spear. The little water Maiar that usually lurked and laughed in the shadows of the rocks were silent and the fish were few. 

There was no sense of time without the Trees or other elves. Hisweyelde walked until tired, then ate, set up camp and slept until rested. The pattern and the trail continued as she followed the Noldor and her husband north. Eventually she would catch up. Or, simply follow them right into Middle Earth. 

Truthfully, even with the Swan Boats, it would take ages to move that many elves and supplies across the Sea. She hadn’t been gone long enough for the entire crossing to have completed. And they had agreed to make sure the boats got back to Aqualonde in the end, a token apology for the slaughter.

She ate the fresh fruit her sister had tucked into a side pocket within the first three rests. And tried to eat as little of the dried fruit and meat, waybread and cheese as possible. Better to save it for later when the plants vanished and the hunting became scarce. 

The vast trail ended abruptly in a large debris filled, abandoned camp in the lee of cliffs that trailed off into sea stacks at the end of a flat bay. 

She was picking through the remains when she heard the Maia and looked over the cliff. 

He, or she, or it, it was hard to tell with some Maiar and all too easy with others, called out, “Noldor elf maid, did you become lost that you didn’t travel north or south?” His hooves clicked as he walked an impossible path out of the shallow water of the rocky shore and up the cliff face toward her. She backed away from the edge and he followed her back to the safer solid ground. 

His black feathers and fronds whispered about him and settled down so that she could see two black eyes peering down from a triangular head on its long neck. The triangular head opened into a mouth impossibly wide that yawned idly, displaying a predator’s teeth. The mouth closed with a sudden snap and a long pink tongue licked out to flick fronds out of its eyes. “Or are you a last late little Kinslayer running as fast as possible toward the Doom of the Noldor? I could carry you to the Doom faster if you would like.” 

The pupils were thin slits of lightning blue. The long feathered tail flicked and she dragged her gaze away from the staring eyes to the four black shiny hooves. It is dangerous to stare into the eyes of some of the Maiar. “I am following my husband north. Is that where the Noldor have gone?”

The Maia laughed and shook, the smell of a beach at low tide drifted over her. “Welcome to Araman, little elf. This is where the Oathtakers split. One in terror and fear of the Doom to go home and plead for forgiveness their part in the Valar’s failings. One to go north, forsaking the Valar if they can, and then cross out of the world to pursue their Doom to its end.”

Hisweyelde could hear the emphasis in “Doom”. “What is the Doom? Did Lady Artanis or another behold the future?”

The head turned and stretched up toward the rocks visible above the camp, framed by starlight. “Up there. Lord Mandos himself stood and proclaimed the Doom.” The head turned back to her and the jaws opened to a powerful and echoing voice:

_“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and the Valar will fence Valinor against you, and shut you out, so that not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Fëanor the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East, and upon all that will follow them it shall be laid also. Their Oath shall drive them, and yet betray them, and ever snatch away the very treasures that they have sworn to pursue. To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well; and by treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall this come to pass. The Dispossessed shall they be forever._

_Ye have spilled the blood of your kindred unrighteously and have stained the land of Aman. For blood ye shall render blood, and beyond Aman ye shall dwell in Death's shadow. For though Eru appointed to you to die not in Eä, and no sickness may assail you, yet slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be: by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity though all whom ye have slain should entreat for you. And those that endure in Middle-earth and come not to Mandos shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.” (Flight of the Noldor, The Silmarillion)_

The jaws shut with a snap before opening into a toothy smile. Hisweyelde stood there stunned. 

“Hisweyelde, wife of Makalaure, I saw you also at Aqualonde. You helped slaughter my beloved friends the sailors and their blood ran down to me in the water. How will you choose?”

She forced herself to stare straight into the Maia’s eyes. “Valinor does not hold anything for me. Neither do the Valar. I choose to follow my husband, my family and my friends whether we are doing the right thing or not.”

The Maia’s head shot up so it’s muzzle was pointed at the sky and it laughed wildly, its voice echoed off the rocks. “So speaks a true child of the kin of Finwe Noldoran. Go in peace.” 

With a peculiarly boneless motion it slithered over the edge of the cliff again and was gone. 

The silence on the point was eerie after that, and it felt like even the waves on the rocks were muffled. Hisweyelde quickly gathered anything that looked to be of use and continued on, unwilling to stay there at the point. 

The trail was the same size on the other side of the point and she wondered how many of the Noldor had chosen to return with Lord Arafinwe after all. She took a few experimental steps back down trail toward the abandoned camp. Around the bend in the rocks, the trail vanished into a solid barricade of giant cliffs of stone. Curious now, she backed up and tried to climb over a different way. More cliffs blocked the path. Even more interestingly, she got the impression that the trail never existed in the first place: like in walking northward she had walked not only out of the known lands of Valinor itself, but reality as well. 

From here, no matter what, she has no choice but to go forward. 

The sudden inability to choose a different direction made her feel a little better: it is exhausting to always have to be the one to make the choices. She followed the trail with a lighter heart. 

It was getting steadily colder as she traveled. Now, as she set up her tent it was on rocks surrounded by a rime of ice that sparkled in the light of her tiny lantern. She abandoned the stakes after it became apparent that, for the fourth rest in a row, the ground was too frozen to set them. There were always plenty of rocks to tie the tent to. 

It was just after that when she crossed the stream. Even the dark, with her little lantern the only light under cloudy skies, she could hear the running water and see it steaming. The creek was a tiny thing, fed from a hot spring just up the hill. She stopped and bathed, luxuriating in the hot water and the chance to be clean.

The reeds were growing on the edge of the stream in clumps. They were segmented, hollow things. Experimentally she swung her hand through a patch and giggled at the hollow clonks produced. She crawled out of the water long enough to get her knife and the lost hair tie. Then, sat in the hot water building a tiny pan flute.

It didn’t take long to carve and Sing, and when she finished she blew across the top and laughed at the high sweet pitches. 


	2. Light of the Stars

The harp was a marriage gift. 

Not right when they were married of course but much later, on an anniversary. 

To her vague surprise, living in the House of Feanor suited her. Like all Noldor, the residents built and crafted, Singing details into both art and craft. Unlike most Noldor, it seemed every elf in the household specialized in a different material and Song. Her lack of skill in metal and gems went completely unremarked in the disparate flood of talent around her. She used to love sitting quietly in a corner watching Lady Nerdanel at work. Lady Nerdanel Sang as much as used hammer, chisel and rasp to shape her creations. The results were vivid and lifelike enough that when colored were easily mistaken for actual living beings. Upon noticing her fascination, the Lady had even handed her a small waste scrap and palm sized chisel, trying to show her how it was done. 

Makalaure had laughed at dinner that night, upon finding his wife covered in rock dust. He said, “Amya has tried with all of us already. None of us has the talent to Sing the stone into being!”

One of the Ambarussa (she never could keep them straight) had replied, “At least we were okay at the carving. Nelyo just squished his fingers a lot!” 

There had been a chorus of agreement from the other brothers and very quietly from the other end of the table Carnister’s voice had added, “Well, it was still better than when he tried weaving: he needed a healer then.” 

Nelyafinwe had turned with minor outrage toward that end of the table when Curufinwe turned to Tyelkormo and said, “By the way, did I hear that Lord Orome forbade you from cooking for the Hunt ever again?” The conversation had turned (semi) peacefully onward. 

After dinner Curufinwe had stopped next to her chair and said, “Kano probably forgot to tell you, but there is an order for supplies from the far South being sent out tomorrow. Give Nelyo a list if you want anything like dapple tree wood or ebony.” Hisweyelde sat there stunned (which caused the kitchen staff to assume she wanted more desert) as she contemplated that she had just been encouraged to purchase exotic Southern woods if she so pleased. 

Even more stunning had been Nelyafinwe’s response to her tentatively presented list. “It is easier to purchase in bulk, would you mind much if I simply double the list?”

She dove into creating more musical instruments without a backward glance. The anniversary harp (as she thought of it) had been the latest in a long series of pieces created as she experimented with wood, Song and style. She spent almost eight years planning, carving, polishing and Singing the instrument and she considered it a masterwork of her very own. Even the carry bag had been specially crafted by the Ambarussa, Sung with durability, weatherproofing and protection for the contents. (She had a terrible time getting them to keep the secret though, they had loved teasing her with the idea of “accidentally” saying something.)

The surprise and delight on Makalaure’s face had been worth it. In all the years since he had carried it everywhere and had never used a different instrument unless absolutely required by occasion. 

Lady Nerdanel had delicately run her fingers across the strings and listened to the answering hum before she said, “Good job,” in that understated way of hers. 

Lord Feanaro had simply said, “Humph,” and walked on, he had greater concerns than one wood Singer making musical instruments. 

***

Playing the tiny little pan flute quickly became a habit when she stopped for rest. 

She hadn’t seen any more plants or animals since continuing along the trail north. (The hot spring creek had contained little translucent fish less than half a finger long, and rather larger water striders.) The rocks were frozen into the ground, and away from the great beaten section created by the passage of thousands of elves, the ice grew into long shimmering spikes. 

Hisweyelde reached the next large abandoned encampment about a dozen rest stops after making the pan flute. The ground was flat and sloped gently down to a large bay, perfect for mooring an entire fleet of boats. The boats and the elves were missing though, instead were tidy heaps of abandoned possessions. 

She picked through what she found, trying to work out why it had been left. Most of it was heavy: axes, spades, chests (now emptied of items), hand carts apparently broken down for component wood. Construction scraps. In one stack, a plush dog doll sat on the top, perched to stare across the bay. The entire encampment was saturated in a messy emotional mix of rage, terror and betrayal. At the other end of the bay and piles of gear, the trail continued north, noticeably smaller. Something horrible had happened.

She stared at the doll and hoped that little Tyelpe was still safe and okay.

No food. No weapons. A scattering of children’s toys and broken supplies. She dug through and replaced the light stone in her little lamp with a stronger one. 

Baffled, she went down to the water’s edge and found the imprint of small boats launched but nothing more. The water Maiar she knew had to be out there somewhere were silent. As she walked among the rocks they moved ahead of her and she could feel their eyes when she tried playing her pan flute for them. She was a little miffed at that part: she cannot Sing through music as her husband can, but she isn’t such a terrible player that everything should stay in hiding despite her efforts. 

Finally, concern and curiosity unappeased, she continued north. 

It was in the rocky, icy mountain pass just beyond that Hisweyelde found the first cairn. It sat on the backside of the pass, just off the trail. She assumed it had been erected as a trail marker: the trail was getting fainter on the icy ground, and she had missed it entirely a few times when the wind blew the snow away. 

As she stepped past, a glint caught her eye and she stopped to look. There between the rocks, wedged in for safety, was a hair tie neatly looped and tied into a bow around a rock. The beaded ends of the tie rattled slightly in the wind. 

More than a waypoint cairn, the pile of rocks was the best grave the travelers ahead had managed on the frozen ground. 

She bowed her head politely to the rocks and whispered, “Whoever you are, I am sorry to meet you this way.” Then rushed onward, trying not to visualize the death the unknown elf had met.

She didn’t play her pan flute that rest or the next. 

That mountain pass was the last before the Ice. It was cloudless when she caught her first look, and the blank white glistened bright under the stars. It made a bewildering maze of rifts and hills, and beyond on the other side she could see yet more mountains. More disturbingly, other than the continuing trail, there were no lights or other signs of the elves ahead of her. 

Despite the extra she had picked up in the encampments and minor foraging along the way, her food was getting low. 

Before she climbed out onto the giant ice sheets, she decided to spend one full space between rests gathering as much food as she could. Hopefully she could find enough to hold her across the white blankness of the Ice to the mountains she could see out there in the distance. 

There was little to be found on the ice coated shelf above the water. She scoured up and down the shore farther and found mounds of thick leathery kelp and little crabs. In a little rock pocket just above the low tide line she managed to catch a couple of fish the length of her hand. She threw them up onto the shore and then climbed up the rocks again. The fish were already frozen solid by the time she reached them again. The wind was picking up, and despite the hat the tips of her ears were numb and tingly by the time she returned to the trail to camp. Obviously she was going to have to be careful of frostbite out here. 

The kelp was awful tasting, but still edible. She took to chewing on strips as she walked, just to keep from thinking about how indigestible the stuff tasted. 

The chewing was also useful because it distracted her a little as she walked on the Ice. The trail was barely discernable: white on white. The ice was slick and a weird rolling flat in every direction. She felt like she was walking into a dream. A few times she discovered that she had just continued walking in a trance as she slipped away from the disorientation of the stark white. She tried turning the lantern on as she walked (most times the starlight had been enough before) but that created an even worse maze of white in every direction and blocked out the stars in the dark sky. 

It was cloudy, making both sky and ground a disorienting indeterminate dark gray, the day she stepped into the crack. 

There were a lot of cracks, she suspected they formed somehow when the wind blew (it had been pretty calm since she had gotten onto the actual Ice). Her foot went into the crack and she pitched forward helpless to catch herself this time. She landed at the bottom of a tiny slope and lay there gasping in shock. She unhitched her pack and slid out from under it slowly, checking for damage. One ankle was sore. She wrapped it up tightly and swore to herself to move a little more carefully. 

The weakened ankle never quite healed up. Hisweyelde just kept it wrapped. 

It was a major disappointment to discover the distant mountains were yet more Ice, built into giant turned blocks. They were acting as a wind block too, and out of the lee the wind howled. Sometimes she could hear the ice moving and grinding past itself. There were occasional explosive noises as big blocks of ice simply split in half or flipped over. 

The trail disappeared entirely at times and she watched carefully to make sure she was still walking the right direction.

One day, she found the body of an elven male shredded beyond recognition. His blood had leaked across the ice and captured the tracks of the bear that had killed him and dragged him there. Hisweyelde whispered a prayer that Mandos would take care of him, and shoveled some of the falling snow across his body.

Hisweyelde found the next bodies at the base of the next ice mountains when she managed to intersect the trail again. They were carefully stacked to one side of the beaten path and covered with pieces of ice. The wind and shifting ice mountains had uncovered them enough that Hisweyelde was fairly certain the unfortunates had drowned. She sat down next to the bodies, one was a small elfling, and played lullabies on her pan flute before moving on. 

Out this far, the Ice was a maze of fissures and ever changing hills with open water appearing suddenly between. She could easily understand how a drowning could happen. 

Another time, she found the remains of a seal. It was almost unrecognizable in its careful butchery, but there was little else that size on the ice. She was glad of the evidence the elves ahead were catching food and wondered if her fishing spear (currently in use as a walking stick) would be sufficient for the creatures. It would be bigger and more nutritious than the little fish she was catching with the hooks and line.

Given the dangers in the ice field, it wasn’t much of a surprise when an ice sheet moved under her feet and tumbled her down into a jagged pile of ice. 

The shock of how cold the ice was against her skin almost masked the pain from the gash it left from mid-thigh to just below her knee. The blood was very bright and she lay there and watched it melt the snow for long minutes before she reached into her bag and pulled out her other tunic to use as bandages. 

She managed to get her tent up and crawl in, leaving bloody marks behind. Then lay there panting and crying as she stitched the deepest parts of the cut and bandaged the whole thing a little better. Finally done, she closed her eyes and clutched her pan flute to her chest.

Too injured to walk, Hisweyelde lay in her tent and dreamed. Waiting to heal.

***

Much later, Hisweyelde thought that the beginning of the end was probably the creation of the Silmarils. 

More practically, the first big change was the disaster of temper that led to Lord Feanaro, his sons and father King Finwe all being exiled to Formenos. She can understand jealously of a sibling, but it would never occur to her to threaten her little sister. Now on the Ice with plenty of time to think, she thought that maybe it would have been more reasonable to leave Lord Feanaro and the Silmarils in the rudimentary fort at Formenos and all gone back to Tirion to the cheerful mansion against the mountains. 

Or better yet, traveling to the far corners of Valinor. 

She liked to visualize how it could be. Still with her husband’s family, creating her musical instruments and basking in the easy or weird acceptance of the entire group of siblings and occasional cousin. (Findekano was there to drag Nelyafinwe off on laughable adventures as often as not.)

She chose this path, but it does not make it any less lonely. 

Formenos had been a rudimentary hunting encampment at first. Little grew without the Light of the Trees or Singers to encourage it. She had actually enjoyed it, building a true settlement of Noldor, learning the sword and riding about the hills next to Makalaure. 

The true beginning of the end might have been Melkor’s little visit.

After Melkor had strolled through, suave and friendly, Lord Feanaro had suddenly proclaimed that arms practice would be lengthened. Soon after, Lord Feanaro had passed a series of decrees that now in retrospect made less and less sense. 

Or, the end might have been when Lord Feanaro had announced that marriage bonds were a product of a plot by the Valar and told them all to shut them down. Lady Nerdanel had left right after that. As she packed up she said to Curufinwe’s wife and her, “For such a bright male he can be an idiot. I don’t know what’s gotten into him these days but maybe my departure will shake the stupidity up a little.” Lord Feanaro had completely ignored his wife’s absence and continued a race to prepare for a war he insisted was coming.

Curufinwe’s wife had left to go back to Tirion soon after. After arguing, their son Tyelpe had stayed.

Now on the Ice, Hisweyelde wondered if a different choice would have been to find Lady Nerdanel. But she had not returned with King Finwe’s death or the darkness. She wished she had demanded Makalaure reopen their bond. Lord Feanaro had been wrong, nothing with so much pleasure as hearing her mate’s heart could be evil. 

Hisweyelde had enjoyed the arms practice and took pride in her slowly growing skill. Makalaure didn’t speak down their bond, but played his harp and sang with her. 

The first time she had ended up with stitches was really her fault. Not seeing him from the doorway, she had wandered into Lord Feanaro’s private workshop, wanting to call him to dinner. He had knocked her to the floor with a fist and screamed, “Spy!”

She had curled up waiting to die. Makalaure and Curufinwe had run in and prevented their father from hitting her again. Makalaure had dragged her to her feet and out the door. It was only outside that she noticed she had hit something sharp as she fell, gashing her forearm. The healers had stitched it, healed it enough to prevent infection and then bandaged it carefully. 

That night in their rooms Makalaure said, “Stay away from Atto.”

She had looked at him, shocked. And he scowled and said, “Stay away from Atto or I’ll have you packed off to Tirion and your family.” Queasy, she nodded her agreement and curled up to cry. He had gotten out the harp she had made, wrapped her in blankets to lean against him, and Sung lullabies to her for the rest of the evening. 

***

As she felt a little stronger, she spent some of her time in the tent mending her trousers. There was no practical way to entirely get out the dried blood, but she still needed to wear them. She scowled at the scar across her forearm. She had been wrong then, she had never deserved Lord Feanaro’s rage. 

Tracking time was impossible but eventually, and before her food ran out, she was able to walk onwards. 

After all this time alone to think she has come to some conclusions. The biggest is that she needs to have a talk with her mate when she reaches Middle Earth. Looking back, the slaughter at the docks in Aqualonde was an act of madness, desperation and rage. Looking back, Makalaure was trying in a heavy handed, unjust and outright stupid way to protect her. Looking back, she should have left Formenos at that moment and tried to take Makalaure with her (and gone alone if necessary). 

She and Makalaure both made mistakes. 

The stars are gloriously bright this far out on the ice. The air is clear and cold. The stars are so numerous that they cover the sky, barely leaving enough room for the black night between them. The first time out journeying again she couldn’t walk as far as she could before, so she made camp early and played hymns to Varda on her pan flute as she watched the stars make their slow wheel about the sky. 

She smiled, she is lonely but she feels free. 

It was almost 20 rests later when her luck ran out. 

Hisweyelde thrashed in the water, the cold was enough that her lungs were seizing and black spots floating before her eyes. She got her head out of water through main instinct and gulped air that ached. The edge was right there but too slick to climb out. She drew her knife and stabbed it into the ice, chipping the point but attaching her to the edge. Her fishing spear was at the top of the slope she had tumbled down.

The pack weighed too much and she slipped out to haul herself back onto the ice. Somehow she dragged it after her out of the water. She must have that pack to make it to Makalaure. 

The ice crackled alarmingly and she managed to drag herself farther away from the edge, already trying to plan the next steps. 

Get to safer ice.

Pitch her tent.

Get out of the wet clothes. 

Her legs weren’t moving right. Some remote part of her brain said, “too cold, hurry up, you are freezing to death”. Her hair was freezing into little clinking pieces, a distracting noise she noticed as she finally got all the way up to the safe ice.

Pawing at her ice glazed pack, she barely noticed the great white bear as it walked gently past the seal hunting hole she had reopened. 

She looked up when it made a breathy huff through its nose. And gripped her knife tightly when it walked up the hill toward her.

Next step: scare off the bear.

Next step: finish crossing the Ice.

Next step: find Makalaure.

***

Makalaure rolled out of his bed, screaming. Disoriented and nauseated he managed to get within three paces of his bedroom door before he collapsed to vomit on the floor. That slowed him enough that the nearest bedrooms in the hall could run to his room. The Ambarussa. 

“Kano, are you okay? Here, lie still and we’ll get the healers.”

He screamed at them and fought them off as they tried to help and then in desperation Sang all the agony and terror held in his soul. They collapsed and he ran. He crashed through Nelyafinwe in the hall, flattening him and barely noticing the “thud” as his elder brother’s head bounced hard off the floor. 

He ran past the gate guards, too startled to stop him. He ran as fast as he could into the snow and eternal darkness. 

As he ran, he cried. It was far, far too late but he had to try and go. It was north he knew, somewhere out in the ice and snow. He hadn’t noticed he was wearing a pair of shorts and nothing else. He didn’t notice the frostbite setting in or the bloody footprints he left in his wake.

Something came out of the dark and paced him. And someone was yelling behind him, “Morgoth’s balls, Kano! Stop running!”

Then the thing in the dark swerved and collided with his hips and shoulder, knocking him through the air and sideways into the ground. Huan. His wind was knocked out and he wheezed as he scrambled to his feet. And started running again. 

Huan reappeared next to him and this time knocked into his shoulder hard and at an angle, sending him flying headlong into debris and snow. This time Makalaure knew the maneuver for one the giant hound used to hunt wargs. The impact with the ground was harder as he slid down a rocky embankment. The hound landed on him at the bottom and lay down on top of him as he struggled. 

Then Tyelkormo was there. Hastily dressed in a nightshirt tucked into poorly laced trousers and properly laced boots. A outdoor guard jacket slightly too small was over the lot and his hair was still in a loose sleeping braid. 

He tried to run again and Tyelkormo grabbed him. As he struggled, his brother kneed him in the balls and then punched him hard enough in the gut that he collapsed retching and gasping. As he got his breath back, his brother started to shift him and examine his injuries. “Damn idiot, where were you going? This way is only snow.”

He Sang pain and despair at his brother, and rattled, Tyelkormo let go. Only to shake off the effect and tackle him as he tried to get up and run. This time Tyelkormo hit him in the head and knocked him out. 

When Carnistir caught up, Tyelkormo had Makalaure’s wrists and ankles carefully wrapped in his socks and tied with his bootlaces. His limp body was sprawled on Huan where he at least wasn’t lying in the snow. Carnistir looked at Makalaure’s feet. “Nienna… He didn’t even put shoes on.” He dropped a pack of supplies and a wool blanket that Tyelkormo recognized as belonging to Nelyafinwe. “Did you have to tie him like that? He’s not even conscious.”

Tyelkormo’s scowl deepened, his head hurt. “Yes, and he’s lucky I didn’t gag him as well. The stupid idiot won’t stop trying to get away. How’re everyone?”

Carnistir shrugged. “All alive. Curvo was marshalling the healers when I followed you.”

Tyelkormo sighed. “Let me heal the concussion I just gave him, then Huan can carry him back.” He’s the only one of the brothers with ANY healing talent, although all know basic medical attention. Once that was finished, they rolled Makalaure’s limp body into the blanket and tied him across the giant hound before starting the long trek back to the fort. 

Carnistir was not in a talkative mood and Tyelkormo had plenty of time to think as he watched Makalaure for signs of consciousness. It was really a lucky hit to knock out Kano without killing him. He’s not sure what set him off, but the fact that he had been stopped without anyone dying might be the first piece of luck they’ve had since the Trees died and the Light vanished from the world. 

Everything since the Trees died has felt like a Hunt that is going wrong. The sort of Hunt that Lord Orome would stop and choose new prey or head back to camp. With the Oath there is no leaving this Hunt though, and there are already casualties. 

They were only a few hundred yards from the fort when Makalaure woke up. He blinked stupidly at the snow and then Tyelkormo hurriedly pulled him off of Huan as he started retching again. Probably a consequence of the concussion and ride draped sideways over the hound. When he finally stopped, Tyelkormo and Carnistir hauled him bodily back over Huan and they finished the trip in. 

Tyelkormo’s stomach lurched a little though: Makalaure’s eyes are blank and glazed and he’s completely limp, not protesting his uncomfortable ride, damaged feet, the bruises or headache Tyelkormo had surely given him. In fact, he’s not getting any emotional impressions from his brother at all. He hoped the real healers could fix whatever was wrong with him. Right now his elder brother reminds him more of a stag bleeding out quietly in the snow. 

Almost one week later Makalaure finally started responding to the world again. He didn’t remember crashing through his brothers or running off into the darkness. 

Several months later, just after Nelyafinwe went on that Valar damned “diplomatic mission” Makalaure realized what happened and sat in the office that was Nelyo’s (Feanaro hadn’t lived long enough to see the fort have proper buildings, Nelyafinwe hadn’t lived long enough to see his trestle table replaced with a proper desk) and wept. 

Watching his father lose his mind and his brothers begin to blindly follow the demands of the Oath he had tried to keep her safe. But somehow, the Oath and the Doom had taken his wife anyways. 

***

She later finds out she was released from the Halls later than many others, being a Kinslayer. 

The Halls had been dark and peaceful, with no one to berate her for her shortcomings or call her a Kinslayer. But lonely with no one to keep her company or befriend. 

She had watched the world go past piecemeal fashion through the tapestries. Her husband using his Song to murder, a trail of blood and destruction that had ended with him throwing the Silmaril into the Sea. 

Of her parents that in pain had never mentioned her name again and scrubbed her memory from their lives. And once a season her little sister carefully and secretly leaving a tiny bouquet of flowers on their favorite bench in the park, whispering a prayer to the Valar that she was safe wherever she was. 

The worst was the moment she watched the Sun and Moon rise in the tapestries and wept that Lord Feanaro had not simply handed the Valar the Silmarils before they were stolen. 

It turns out scars stay only if you want them to when you are reborn. The weeping Vala told her to decide which she would take into this new life. She could erase the calluses of wood carving and the little burn on her finger from learning to cook on a campfire. She could erase the jagged scar that wound down her leg from the ice when she slipped. In the end she chose to just erase one – the mark Feanor had left on her arm. 

That decision made, she was asked, “Who would you have meet you when you are reborn?”

Hisweyelde asked, “Where is my husband? I want him to meet me but you have left him stranded over the Sea in pain. Where are his brothers? Where is your mercy?” Rash, but she figured the worst that would happen would be a disembodied exile back to the tapestries. 

Besides, she doesn’t truly want to see anyone else except her little sister. And she won’t risk her little sister or her sister’s relationship with her husband.

The gray shadow that made up the Vala stared down. “The Oath and the Doom for Makalaure Feanorian ended long ago. Now it is simply his own guilt that keeps him from Valinor. The Sons of Feanor will leave here when it is time, and not before.”

She was surprised to actually get answers, and wondered for what time the Vala waited. “Then I will walk myself out and meet no one.”

Surprisingly, the Vala laughed, smiled at her through the tears, and said, “Please do not try walking north to go to Middle Earth: all is sundered and the worlds divided.”

So she walked out naked and alone. There were clothes and basic supplies waiting for her on a table. A courtesy she supposes: she can’t be the only elf to not have people waiting to greet her. 

A very long time ago now, she sat on a rooftop with Makalaure. Her arm was still bandaged and the stitches itched. They held hands and watched the stars over Formenos. He had asked, “If you were completely free, with no ties at all, what would you do?”

Shocked she had looked up at him, he was staring hard at the stars. He continued, “I don’t mean without me, I mean without any responsibilities or family to tie you down.”

“I’ve never thought about it before. Maybe give myself a new name?” She laughed at the thought, “I would rename myself for happiness and adventure. We could travel about Valinor some more and see everything.”

He smiled in the darkness. “I like that, ‘see everything’. We could become traveling minstrels and sing for our dinners!”

Now, she walked out into Valinor. Free and empty. And without Makalaure.

She can feel her mate down their bond. He is so far away that the bond is a tiny shadow in her mind. She remembered the way people had stared and the Maiar avoided her. Nothing will change the fact that she is a Kinslayer. Nothing will change the choices she and Makalaure made before.

She and Makalaure will have to try again. 

Long ago, before the Trees died, there were groups of traveling minstrels. She can’t imagine that they wouldn’t exist now in a time of a Sun and Moon. Maybe they would like and accept an instrument carver. 


End file.
